


Wildflower

by ArliaDevi



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Child Jaskier | Dandelion, Family Fluff, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hardcore camping, Kidnapping, Other, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Rescue Missions, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, good guy geralt helps child jaskier, heavy handed foreshadowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24604105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArliaDevi/pseuds/ArliaDevi
Summary: It’s 1234. Geralt of Rivia is passing through a small town in the middle of Redania when he's summoned to the Viscount's castle. There, he's asked to track down a missing person: the Viscount's five-year-old son, Julian.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 71
Kudos: 631





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Some disclaimers up front:
> 
> \- there is no child abuse, trauma or violence to any under aged characters  
> \- this is 100% self-indulgent Geralt is a good dad to child Jaskier  
> \- shenanigans ensue  
> \- some Geralt/Jaskier later, when they grown

He hasn’t slept in almost a week. It's been a wet start to spring and camping has been less than pleasurable in the mud and dampness. Last night he'd finally arrived in the small hamlet of Lettenhove and rented a room in one of the cheaper inns, grateful to finally spend a night out of the rain.

So the fact that he's awaken at first light with a _thumping_ on the door, after having slept barely a few hours, frays at the last of his nerves. 

Another knock. ‘Mister Witcher, sir-,’ the voice is of a young man. It breaks, betraying his nervousness.

With a grunt, Geralt rises, grabs his shirt and pulls it on. Fetching his sword just in case, he opens the door.

The timid voice of the man complements his physical appearance; he is fair, lean and dressed like nobility. There’s a sword at his hip. Geralt doubts he knows how to wield it effectively.

'What?' he demands. 

The man quivers but holds his ground. ‘Sir, the Viscount requests your presence at his residence.’

‘The Viscount can fuck off,’ Geralt replies. He’s about to close the door when the man’s foot juts across the threshold, ensuring it won't close completely. Geralt looks down at it, half-considering still swinging the door closed and breaking his toes. 

‘Please, sir, ‘ the messenger implores. ‘He has a job. Pays handsomely.’

The messenger, a member of the Viscount’s nobility, doesn’t allow Geralt breakfast in his haste to return to the castle with the Witcher in tow.

‘You shall have all you desire on acceptance of the contract, sir,’ the messenger states. ‘Come now, quickly.’

Geralt’s pace doesn’t pick up. ‘What exactly is the job?’

The messenger glances around the quiet village square. It’s early morning, the sun has barely risen over the mountains, and the square is quiet. ‘Best the Viscount discusses that with you, sir.’

Sir. The title sticks on him. He’s rarely a sir. A Witcher, often, sometimes a beast, occasionally a monster. He’s rarely addressed with a title that indicates respect, that indicates social standing above another person. It doesn’t sit right with him, and as they approach the Viscount’s lavish residence, that this job must be something particularly shitty.

The Viscount’s home is a large manor with a well-manicured garden. Large bushes of azaleas flower on either side of the front door. As he steps into the foyer, two guards turn their eyes to him. He eyes them back, expecting to be told to leave his weapons at the door, but then the messenger is ushering him deeper into the house. Geralt follows and is lead into a warm study.

The Viscount is studying a wide map of the area. He reeks of alcohol, tobacco and three-day-old sweat.

‘My Lord,’ the messenger addresses. ‘May I present Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher.’

Geralt glances at the messenger. He’d never given his name; still, he supposes, he’s been on the Path for fifty years. He’s bound to become a familiar face.

The Viscount glances up from his map. Immediately, Geralt notices how weary he looks.

‘They say you can track anything,’ the Viscount says. ‘Beast, man, whatever. You find them?’

He’s to track something then. Perhaps a beast in the nearby forest. An escaped prisoner. ‘Yes.’

‘My son is missing. Kidnapped, most likely,’ the Viscount says. ‘I’ll pay you handsomely to find him and return him. Alive.’

‘No ransom?’

‘None,’ the Viscount spits.

Geralt crosses his arms over his chest. If the boy had been kidnapped, they’d have known who he was. They wouldn't have killed him without first trying to extort whatever coin his life was worth from his family. ‘Doesn’t sound like a kidnapping. Could have run off with a girl from the village.’

The Viscount glares at him. ‘My son is _five years old_.’

Shit.

‘When did he go missing?’

‘Yesterday afternoon. He was in the village with Margot, his nanny, attending to the market when he disappeared. We’ve had guards sweep the village and surrounding area. There’s been no sight of him.’ The Viscount jabs at the map detailing the surrounding area. ‘That’s why we need _you._ ’

‘I don’t work for free.’

‘I’ll pay you handsomely on my son’s return.’

Geralt’s lips purse. He normally requires half payment up-front. It’ll be hard working money out of the bastard if he brings back the corpse of his child. ‘A quarter now. Plus rations for a day’s trip. Full price when I return him to you, alive or not.’

The Viscount nods solemnly. ‘I just need to know.’

He turns to his desk and picks up a small red coat. Geralt takes the garment, raising it to his nose. It smells loamy, like fresh earth. Wildflowers. Sweat. Sugar.

‘He was wearing that yesterday,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how this works, what else do you need?’

‘His name would help,’ Geralt replies.

The Viscount bristles at his sarcasm. ‘Julian. His name is Julian.’

He's handed a small painting in a frame. The child is rosy-cheeked with a mop of mousy brown hair and cornflower blue eyes. The painting is supposed to depict him emotionless, hard-lipped, like a noble, but there's a cheekiness to his gaze, in the upturn of his mouth. Geralt commits his face to memory. 

'That was painted only two months ago,' the Viscount laments. ' _Please_.'

‘I’ll need a horse to get back to the tavern. I’ll start in the marketplace. Work my way out.’

‘Whatever you need.’

‘I’ll be back at nightfall to check on a ransom. Do not pay any money until I return.’

‘And if you don’t?’

‘Then, I’m on his trail.’

The Viscount nods and lets out a shaky breath. ‘Ferrant, have the Witcher’s things organised. Give him rations for the day’s search, then accompany him back to the tavern.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ the messenger replies. Geralt is seen out and is told to wait by the stables while Ferrant gathers his rations.

The manor isn’t large; there are eight other occupants inside; a woman – presumably the Viscountess’s wife – sobs quietly. Two other children, both girls, are playing with dolls on the second floor. Geralt strolls into the vast garden, but he doesn’t catch a fresh scent. Everything is old, worn, tangled into the land from years of habitation. He picks up the scent of wildflowers and sugar near a tree, follows it up the trunk. The low hanging branches make it perfect to climb.

‘Are you ready Witcher?’ calls Ferrant. The ‘sir’ has been dropped now that he’s accepted the contract, it seems. Geralt nods and turns away from the climbing tree to meet Ferrant back at the stables, the cloak fisted tightly in his hand.


	2. Chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely response to the first chapter! I plan to update this every 2-3 days

Ferrant follows Geralt wordlessly back into town, hanging back. Easy position to shoot him should he leave town now. Looking back, he's surprised not to see Ferrant's gaze on him. Instead, he is eyeing the forestry on the side of the road.

‘What was the boy wearing when he disappeared?’ asks Geralt.

‘I’m unsure,’ replies Ferrant. ‘You’d have to ask Margot, his nanny.’

‘Where does she live?’

Ferrant trots ahead. ‘I’ll show you.’

He’s led to a small house beside a blacksmith. Ferrant dismounts his horse, tethering it to a pole. The blacksmith looks on but says nothing as Ferrant knocks on the door. Geralt does the same with his loaned horse; it’s only a short walk back to his lodgings and Roach.

An old woman answers the door. She doesn't look pleased to see either of them. 

‘We need to ask Margot a few more questions,’ he says and ushers for Geralt to follow. The old woman nods solemnly and lets them into the small house. By the fire, Margot lies with on a straw mattress with her back to the flames. Geralt can smell tears and blood and realises she’s been flogged for losing Julian.

Her eyes perk up when she sees Ferrant and she rises to her hands. ‘Have you found him?’

Ferrant eyes her harshly. ‘No, but the Witcher here is going to ask a few questions, see if we can track him down.’

Margot’s watery eyes turn to him and she says, ‘I didn’t mean to lose him, I swear. He’s an adventurous child.’

He can believe that. Most children scamper away from their caregivers at one point in their lives, only to quickly realise they’ve gone too far and turned back. ‘Where were you when Julian disappeared?’

Margot swallows heavily. ‘We were in the markets. I was buying a head of cabbage from the grocer; we were going to make _kapusta kiszona._ I swear I looked away for a moment to pay the grocer and he was gone. I called and called for him, I asked if people had seen him – everyone knows Julian around here – but it was like he’d just disappeared.’ She doesn’t add _like magic_ but she implies it all the same.

Perhaps the Viscount had suspected magic all along. Perhaps that’s why he’s been asked for help. If so, it’ll make things complicated.

‘What was he wearing yesterday?’

‘Grey pants, a navy-blue shirt. Lightweight. The kind for spring. Tan shoes.’

‘Is there anything else you can remember? Did you notice anyone you didn’t recognise, hear anything, see anything out of the ordinary.’

Margot purses her lips. ‘No. It was an ordinary day. We’d just finished his history lesson, we took a walk into town. There was music playing, I remember that.’

‘Music?’

‘Yes, like a sort of travelling mistral group,’ Margot replies. ‘The music had stopped by the time we arrived. I assumed they'd moved on.’

Ferrant turns to him. 'There was no travelling minstrels, choirs or bards performing in the square yesterday.'

That, Geralt considers, is peculiar. He looks back to Margot. ‘How did it sound? Do you remember?’

She hums a few tunes, but Geralt doesn’t recognise the melody. He needs to get going. Something is unsettling about the child's disappearance. The tang of magic is on the top of his tongue. ‘Thanks.’

Ferrant follows him out of the nanny’s house. ‘Well?’

‘I need to work,’ he says. It’s his politest way of saying fuck off.

Ferrant doesn’t budge. ‘How do I know you’re not just going to piss off with the money and rations as soon as I let you go?’

Geralt almost rolls his eyes. It’s barely a few hundred crowns and barely enough food to last a day. ‘You don’t. Now fuck off.’ He doesn't know why he beats around the bush sometimes. 

The sun is almost midway through the sky when Geralt returns to the marketplace. Immediately, he winces at the overstimulating environment. He navigates the dense crowd, trying to pick up the familiar scent of wildflowers and sugar, but it’s too often frequented for the scent to remain fresh, trod into the mud by today’s marketgoers. All he can smell is sweat and horse shit. Too many feet mean no footprints.

‘Fuck.’

The kid’s been gone almost a day and with no ransom, there’s a strong chance he’s dead. Possibly dragged away by wolves or murdered as the only son of the Viscount in a political assassination.

Geralt finds a grocer selling cabbage. He’s a wiry old man with a long white beard.

‘Afternoon. Did you sell a cabbage to a young woman yesterday?’ Geralt asks just as he catches the faintest scent of wildflower.

‘Aye. Many,’ replies the grocer. ‘You’ll have to be specific.’

‘Short brown hair. Had a child with her. The Viscount’s son.’

‘Aye. He steals a strawberry off me cart every time she visits, don’t think I don’t notice,’ the grocer grumbles.

‘You saw him since?’

‘He missing, is he?’ Geralt doesn’t reply, but the grocer continues. ‘Must be for someone the likes of you hunting him down.’

He wants to correct that he’s not _hunting_ down a child. ‘Seen him or not?’

‘What’s it to you?’

He doesn’t need the information; he’s already picked up Julian’s scent, faint as it is. ‘Little to me. More to you when I tell the Viscount you didn’t answer my questions.’

The grocer grumbles. ‘I saw the boy with her. Swiped the strawberry from my cart as usual. She bought a cabbage, a big one, too. When she was distracted, I saw him run off towards the stables of the tavern-,’ he points over Geralt shoulder. Across the square is a tavern, and behind it, stables. ‘He was always running off, as boys do, you know.’

‘Did you see him leave the stables?’

‘No, she went chasing him right after she paid. I pointed her in the direction and that was the last I heard about them both until right now.’

Geralt grumbles. Right. The stables then. Yet another place the child's scent won’t stay for very long.

‘You’ll tell the Viscount I helped ya, won’t you?’ the grocer demands as Geralt walks away. ‘Hey!’

The scent of wildflowers is scarce around the stables. There’s a boy, a youth no older than his fifteenth year, mucking out stables.

‘Seen a child? Five years old? Answers to Julian?’ Geralt asks.

The stable boy looks up. ‘Julian Pankratz? Sure. He was here yesterday bothering the horses.’

‘You know where he is?’

The stable boy shakes his head, his blonde fringe moving with the effort. ‘Ran off as soon as he saw me.’

‘Why would that be?’

‘He bothers the horses, gets under their feet.’ The stable boy shrugs. ‘Listen, I have nothing against the boy. He's just trouble to be around. Don’t want to be tied up in the square because he’s been kicked in the head by one of the horses in my stable. Best to keep him out of it, for his own good.’

Geralt nods. ‘See which way he went?’

‘Down into the thicket, I think,’ he says. ‘There’s a small stream down there. Sometimes the kids go down and swim, but it’s been dry all winter.’

Geralt thanks the stable boy and heads down through the forestry towards the stream. It is indeed dry, and there’s no trace of Julian. Back at the stable, he checks around the structure for any sign of the boy, any trace of wildflowers, and finally finds a small footprint by the water tap. The scent of wildflowers is stronger here. The footprints lead through the neighbourhood, weaving between cottages along the outskirts of the city. He’s following someone, Geralt realises, and the tracks begin to lead out of town.

‘Fuck.’

After paying for another night in an inn he won’t sleep in, he leads Roach out of Lettenhove and along the dirt road. Julian’s footprints continue to lead out of the city. Sometimes he gets a whiff of wildflower, but mostly, to his utter contempt, the air is heavy with the scent of magic.

The evening is creeping upon him; if Julian is alive, it’ll likely be another night on his own. Even with magic involved, the chances of finding him alive are slimmer with every moment that passes. Still, he can’t push Roach too much.

The forest rises up on every side, feels like it begins to swallow him as the scent of magic becomes stronger. He finds a clearing for Roach and ties her to a tree stump. Briefly, he rifles through his pack finding vials for Cat and Kiss and pocketing both, just in case, before setting off into the darkness.

He follows the scent of magic; it’s entwined with wildflowers, almost sickly sweet. In the distance, he can hear music. Sweet music through woodwind instruments, like a lullaby. He feels the magic of the song pull at his blood. He treads lightly through the forest, careful not to reveal himself, until he sees them.

Sitting around a fire is a troupe of pixies. 


	3. Chapter three

The troupe of eight pixies play music around the campfire. The air is drenched in magic. Some weave and mend clothes in a small circle, generally merry. Two others chatter around the fire, their backs to him. Children dart around the makeshift huts. The pixies have not been here for long – their camp is fresh. He scans the group for the child and eventually spots him leaning against one of the female pixies, sucking his thumb. In his hair is a wreathe of flowers; daisies and buttercups and baby’s breath. He listens to the music, his thumb in his mouth, and his eyes slowly closing.

There’s no diplomatic way to deal with pixies.

One wrong move and they may kill the child. He can’t lure the child away without arousing suspicion. They may respond well to trade, but he has little in his pack but a few hundred orens, a handful of potions and a poor pack of Gwent cards. Perhaps he can wait until the pixies are asleep and –

‘We see you, Witcher.’

One of the pixies by the fire turns to him. There's a bow strapped to his back, but the quiver is not. He likely also has a small dagger stashed somewhere on his body. He doesn't think the pixie will attack him, but it's a force of habit to note the weapons. To always be on guard.

Geralt steps out of the shadows. ‘Hello.’

‘We assume you’re here for the boy,’ one of the others say. Julian’s eyes turn to him; they’re as blue as the painting.

‘His father is quite worried,’ Geralt replies. ‘I can see he has been taken care of. Thank you.’

It’s a lie, of course, but the pixies wouldn’t have known any better – Julian is dirty, sitting in ripped clothing, and his body is covered in small scratches and cuts from the forest. The pixies have tougher skin, are made to eat and forage mushrooms and roots and leaves that would likely poison or kill the child.

‘He has entertained us,’ one of the pixies says and rubs Julian’s hair affectionately. ‘We did not steal him. He was playing with the children and we did not know how to return him. We looked for the rescuers, but they never came.’

No one from the Viscount’s guard had travelled as far as he had – they’re over half a day’s ride from Lettenhove.

‘His father’s guards wouldn’t have searched this far,’ Geralt replies. ‘Julian.’

Cornflower blue eyes flash to him.

‘Your mother and father are very worried. Do you want to go home?’

Julian nods slowly but doesn’t make a move to get up. Geralt takes a step towards him, but Julian shies away. The pixie he leans against moves to cover him, territorial even for a child not of their kin.

‘I’ll do the boy no harm,’ he insists. 'You’ve made him very hard to find. The magic that keeps you safe has masked him as well.’ He takes a few steps closer, crouches down so he’s eye-to-eye with Julian. ‘You were playing with a new friend?’

Julian nods. ‘His name is Bramble.’

‘Well, it’s time to say goodbye to Bramble now.’ He looks to the smaller child, who must be Bramble. ‘Thank you for playing with Julian.’

‘My name is Jaskier,’ Julian replies. ‘That’s the name Bramble gave me. That’s my _real_ name.’

Geralt considers Julian seriously for a moment. He’s not about to make this harder for himself than picking a fight with a child. ‘Very well then, Jaskier. My name is Geralt. Your father asked me to help find you because I’m good at finding people. Now it’s time to go back home.’

‘And see Margot?’

‘Yes, we’ll see Margot.’

Julian scampers to his feet. His clothes are torn and muddy and Geralt can see a scratch on his cheek. Not deep, perhaps nothing more than a cut from a branch but it’s bled and the skin around the scratch is inflamed.

‘Be good child,’ whispers a pixie as they hug him. ‘You’re our little buttercup. You were made to bring great light to this world.’

The kindness touches Geralt more than it should. Pixies rarely mix with humans and certainly, he’s never seen one feel affections for another. For the most part their territorial and manipulative menaces, occasionally murderous if their magic source is threatened. They hold no malice for the child.

‘Ready to go?’ Geralt asks. Julian nods and raises his hand. For a moment, Geralt looks at it, unsure of the gesture, before Jaskier’s hand seeks his own out and holds it tightly. Geralt moves to take a step forward, but Jaskier hesitates on the edge of the forest, where, to the human eye, the bushland slips into darkness.

‘I’ll carry you,’ Geralt tells him and before Jaskier has a chance to object, Geralt pulls him up onto his hip. Little hands grasp at his shoulder buckles before looping over his neck.

‘Say goodbye to your friends,’ Geralt says. ‘Bye!’

One of the pixies runs forward and hands Jaskier a wooden flute. ‘A gift,’ he says. ‘So, you remember us.’

Jaskier’s body sags against Geralt’s shoulder – he’s tired and stinks of piss and mud. Geralt takes the flute from the pixie. ‘Thank you.’

The pixie brushes Jaskier’s hand with his fingertips. ‘Goodbye, Jaskier.’

‘Bye,’ he says and Geralt begins walking away. Jaskier scrambles to look over his shoulder, and then cries out, _right in his ear_. ‘Bye! Bye Bramble! Bye Violet! Bye Fox! Bye River!’

The pixies wave goodbye, and when they’re out of sight, Jaskier relaxes back onto Geralt’s shoulder. A sticky hand reaches up to tangle in his hair.

'Don't pull my hair,' Geralt says as Jaskier's fingers get caught on a knot. 

‘What is on your back?’

‘My swords.’

‘What do you use them for?’

‘For monsters,’ Geralt replies. He feels Jaskier reach over his shoulder and knows he’s trying to touch Renfri’s amulet. Quickly he catches his hand. ‘Don’t touch.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’ll hurt you. Only I can touch them without getting hurt. They’re special swords.’ The myth is completely false, but Jaskier believes it. They continue through the forest, inching closer back to the camp where he’d tethered Roach.

‘Your hair is like the moon,’ Jaskier mutters. His voice is edged with sleep. ‘Why is it so white?’

‘Because I’m very old,’ Geralt replies.

‘How old?’

‘How old do you think?’

Jaskier takes a moment to think. ‘Twenty-three.’ He sits up. ‘Am I right?’

‘You’re right,’ Geralt concedes and Jaskier giggles. 

Jaskier rests his head against Geralt’s shoulder and after a moment asks, ‘Am I in trouble?’

‘I’m sure your parents will be happy you’re home,’ Geralt says. ‘Your mother misses you a lot.’

‘She was sad?’

‘Yes, very sad.’

They come to the clearing and Geralt places Jaskier on the ground. Jaskier sticks close to him as he begins to make a fire, staring blankly out into the forest. This close, he can feel the rattling of Jaskier's body, pumping extra hormones through his hungry and overtired body. Still, for a night lost in the forest, Jaskier is in good shape. And at least, Geralt considers, alive. He's seen enough death to last a century, but it's always the missions with the kids that fuck him up. 

Jaskier pulls on his arm. ‘Are there monsters here?’

‘No,' he replies as he arranges the kindling. 

‘How can you tell.’

‘Monsters make noise. Like animals. I can’t hear anything.’

He sparks the fire to life, and the flames light up the small clearing. With the light, he can see how dirty Jaskier is; his face is covered in dirt and scratches, his hair is matted with mud, and his clothes are ripped. The boy jitters, his jaw shaking in the cold.

‘You hungry?’ Geralt asks as he pulls a small pot out of his pack and sets it over the coals.

Jaskier shakes his head. Still, Geralt considers, it won’t hurt the child to get some food in his gut.

Handing him the waterskin, Geralt commands, ‘Drink.’

Jaskier takes a few little sips of water.

‘A bit more.’

‘I’m full.’

‘Three more sips,’ Geralt says.

Jaskier takes three more sips belligerently, though, on the third sip, Geralt’s sure he keeps his lips pursed as they touch the waterskin.

Taking the waterskin back, Geralt is surprised to find it half empty. 

‘Stay here. Don’t touch the fire.’ But Jaskier’s eyes aren’t on the fire, Geralt realises. They’re not even on him. No, the child has found something more interesting. ‘Don’t touch the horse.’

Jaskier instantly deflates. ‘But I love horsies.’

‘This one bites,’ Geralt tells him. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

There’s a small creek a few hundred metres away. Geralt takes the cooking pot and his waterskin and refills both before returning to camp. Jaskier, at least, hasn’t moved and is staring into the fire, blankly.

Geralt places the pot of water onto the fire before delving into his pack for his bar of soap. It’s worn down and old, and the soft scent of vanilla and honey – one of the few scents most soap makers generally make en masse that don’t irritate his nose – is mostly gone.

He takes the water off the fire when it’s just warm enough, but not hot, and places it by Jaskier’s feet.

‘Wash yourself,’ he says, handing the child a rag. ‘Especially the cuts on your face.’

Jaskier looks at the rag in his hand. 

‘I can’t bring you back to your father covered in mud,’ Geralt replies. ‘So you need to wash yourself.’ He takes the rag from Jaskier’s hand, dips it in the warm water and begins rubbing at his cheek, removing dirt lodged in the scab over his scratch. Jaskier winces immediately and squirms away.

‘Do it yourself or I’ll do it for you,’ Geralt says but even he knows the threat is empty. He’s never _washed_ a child before. Briefly, he considers walking the few hundred metres to the nearby stream, throwing Jaskier in, letting the current swish him around for a bit before pulling him out. It’d at least be more efficient. Still, Jaskier must not be willing to test him on it, because he takes back the rag and begins rubbing at his face.

‘Shoulders next. Legs. Stomach. Throw your clothes in the fire.’ He finds a clean cotton tunic in his pack. ‘Put this on. It’ll be too big, but better than what you have.’ He stands, walks over to Roach and begins rifling through his bags, his back to Jaskier. ‘Tell me when you’re done.’

He hears waters splashing, the chattering of Jaskier’s teeth, and then the sound of fabric burning in the fire. After a while, Jaskier says, ‘I’m done.’

Geralt turns just as he’s pulling the tunic over his knees. The hem hangs around his ankles, and the arms are far too long.

Sitting down on the log again, Geralt uses a little water from the waterskin to ground the plant matter into a paste. Jaskier, curious, ambles over.

‘What’s that?’

‘Ointment for your cut,’ Geralt says and takes a fingerful. Before Jaskier can flinch away, he smears it across Jaskier’s cheek. ‘It’s to make it feel better.’

Jaskier raises a hand-,

‘Don’t touch it.’

‘It’s _tingling_.’

‘That means it’s working.’

Jaskier frets at the sensation. ‘I don’t like it, I want-,’ his bottom lip begins to quiver. Fuck, Geralt thinks. He needs to think quickly. ‘I want it off! I don’t like it.’

Roach shifts behind him. Horses. Jaskier likes horses.

‘If you let me put the salve on all your other cuts and don’t touch it, you can pet the horse,’ Geralt says. ‘Deal?’

He can’t believe he’s bartering with a child. Jaskier regards Roach with tear-rimmed eyes before nodding, and Geralt quickly smooths the salve over a cut on his arm, his knees, and on his shoulder. To his credit, Jaskier barely fidgets.

‘Right, now we can pat the horse,’ Geralt concedes. Before he can stop him, Jaskier has raced over to Roach. The mare backs off at the intensity of the approach and Geralt rushes over before he’s the one strung up in the square because his mare has kicked the Viscount’s son in the head.

‘Wait, wait,’ he takes Roach’s reigns, settling the horse. He picks Jaskier up again and together, they approach Roach slowly. Jaskier still strains in his arms, eager to touch. ‘Gentle with her. She’s not used to children.’

Jaskier reaches out and touches Roach’s muzzle and then reaches around to scratch her jowl. Roach leans in to sniff at Jaskier’s shirt and the boy giggles.

‘All right, that’s enough,’ Geralt says. ‘Time for food, then bed.’

‘Not hungry,’ Jaskier grumbles.

‘Don’t care. You’re eating. I’m not giving you back to your father tomorrow starving hungry.’

‘Don’t want to go back,’ Jaskier complains as Geralt places him back on the ground.

‘You have to go back,’ Geralt says. ‘Go sit back on the log.’

He doesn’t sit back on the log. Instead, he sits right by Geralt as he washes the pot of Jaskier’s dirty bathing water and lets it dry over the fire instead. Then, once the bacteria’s heated off, he fills the pot with a mix of water and oats, letting it cook until thickened.

‘Eat,’ he instructs.

Jaskier eyes the oats nervously but takes Geralt’s proffered spoon. Gingerly, he eats a mouthful. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘That’s as good as a meal you’re going to get out here,’ Geralt says. ‘You’ll feel better once you eat.’

Jaskier eats almost all of the oats before pressing it back into Geralt’s hand. ‘I’m full.’ He looks around the campground. ‘Where will we sleep?’

Geralt gets up and places his bedroll down near the fire. ‘You can sleep here. I’m going to stay awake.’

‘For monsters?’ Jaskier replies.

‘No. There are no monsters,’ he says. ‘I don’t need to sleep.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m a Witcher.’

‘What’s that?’

Geralt huffs. ‘Go to bed.’

Jaskier climbs onto Geralt’s bedroll.

‘Head on the pillow.’

Jaskier does as he’s told. ‘Where is your home?’

‘Eyes closed.’

Jaskier closes his eyes. ‘Where do you live?’

‘I don’t live anywhere.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I need to travel around a lot.’

‘For the monsters?’

‘Yes, for the monsters.’

‘With Roach?’

‘Yes, with Roach.’

‘But where did your Mum and Dad live?’

Geralt pauses. ‘I lived in Rivia with my mother. It’s a long way away from here.’

Jaskier's eyes shoot open. ‘Near Mount Carbon!’

‘You have a keen knowledge of geography,’ Geralt replies. Jaskier’s eyes shimmer with delight. ‘Eyes closed.’

Jaskier closes his eyes. ‘My dad teaches me. One day, I want to go to the places on his map for real. On my _own_ horsie.’

Geralt doubts it’ll be a possibility, but he isn’t about to dash Jaskier’s dreams. As the only son of the Viscount, and the eldest even if more are birthed, he’ll be expected to inherit the position once his father retires. The risk of travelling will be too great, and he’ll never be permitted to join the army.

‘Hey,’ Jaskier whispers. His voice is heavy with sleep. ‘What’s your name again? I forgot.’

Geralt can’t help but huff out a small laugh. ‘It’s Geralt.’

Geralt's mediation is disturbed in the middle of the night. He opens one eye to see Jaskier up, tugging the bedroll away from the dwindling fire. Geralt doesn't move, doesn't speak. He simply watches Jaskier set the bedroll down on the ground next to Geralt's knee, climb back in and go to sleep. 

Geralt sighs and closes his eyes. He can hear Jaskier's heartbeat slow, finds comfort in it as Jaskier slips back into sleep and Geralt into meditation.


	4. Chapter four

He wakes to a concerning sound. _Wakes_ is perhaps not the correct term, but he comes out of his meditative state slower than he normally would, feeling slightly groggy. The weeks of hard riding are taking his toll on him. Even Witchers need a good night's sleep occasionally, and he is becoming overdue.

There is snuffling in his bedroll. Jaskier crawls out of his bedroll and blindly feels his way onto Geralt's lap. It's still dark, too early to wake. He smells tears, sees the wobbling of his lip in the early light of dawn and know Jaskier is seeking comfort - something he is not used to giving. 

‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, his voice rough.

Jaskier climbs into his arms without a word. The sensation is completely unnerving. Still, he’s not about to push away a child. Gingerly, he wraps an arm around his small waist, lets him settle on his shoulder.

‘Bad dream?’

He feels Jaskier nod against his shoulder.

‘You...' he struggles. 'You want to talk about it?’

When Jaskier doesn’t reply, he sighs and shifts the boy so he lies more comfortably against his shoulder. The sun isn’t far off now, and they should be back on the road by first light, but for now he can slip back into meditation just as easily as Jaskier – who is a strangely unsettled sleeper – snores gently on his shoulder. His breath smells sweet, of mint and honey, and it's warmth brushes against Geralt’s ear occasionally.

He opens his eyes to the first light of dawn and breathes in a deep sigh. His body is still tired; perhaps tonight he’ll be able to sleep. Gently, he rouses Jaskier.

‘Child, it’s time to go,’ he says.

Jaskier grumbles, his head burrowing deeper into his shoulder. Geralt takes a moment, gathers his patience and nudges him again.

‘Jaskier. Awake.’

The child protests louder now, but Geralt pushes him off his shoulder and helps him stand up. The fire is out, and the embers are cold. It’s too long of a ride to Lettenhove without breakfast.

Jaskier watches him wordlessly as he sparks up the fire again.

‘More yucky food?’

Geralt nods. It’s certainly not gourmet. Still, he has enough rations from the Viscount to share with Jaskier: an apple, perhaps one of the first of the seasons, that he splits with his hunting knife, and hands to Jaskier. Boiling water from his waterskin, he makes a tea from chamomile and ginger, straining it into two small bowls. He passes one to Jaskier after he’s finished eating the apple.

Jaskier makes a face as he sniffs the tea. ‘Smells bad.’

‘Don’t care. Drink it.’ He won’t have the child passing out on the road from dehydration.

Tentatively, the boy takes a sip. ‘You like yuck things.’

Jaskier has probably had more professionally cooked meals in his five years than Geralt’s had in his entire life. ‘You’ll be home by lunchtime. Never have to eat my food again.’

Jaskier drinks the tea with little complaint after the first few sips and they have a rather peaceful breakfast by the fire. Geralt packs up his bedroll and tacks Roach for the ride back into Lettenhove. Jaskier will have to wear his shirt; the child has no other clothes, but it’s a warm spring day, so at least it will be pleasant.

It takes him longer than he wants to admit to realise that the child is limping as they lead Roach out of the clearing.

‘Stop,’ he commands. ‘What’s wrong?’ He points down to Jaskier’s feet. ‘Take off your shoes.’

Jaskier frowns. ‘Don’t want to.’

‘Why?’

Jaskier hesitates. He smells the faint tang of blood, metallic and unwelcome. ‘Do your feet hurt?’

Jaskier nods shyly.

With a sigh, he picks up Jaskier, throws him on Roach’s back and leads her back towards the stream. She could do with a drink before they set off, anyway, and Jaskier obviously needs tending to.

At the stream, he pulls of Jaskier’s boots to find blisters. Of course, he’d walked this entire way with the pixies under some sort of trance. He’d likely not realised – or cared – about the blisters forming on his feet.

‘Wash your feet off in the water,’ he says as he leads the mare to upstream to drink.

Jaskier hesitates, looking down at his feet, before tentatively stepping into the water. Immediately, he leaps back with a yelp.

‘It stings.’

‘That means it’s working,’ Geralt says from beside Roach. ‘Keep washing them.’

Jaskier continues to splash in the shallows of the creek, washing down his feet. When he’s done, Geralt picks him up by the armpits and deposits him on Roach’s saddle. Inspecting his foot, Geralt takes out the small jar of salve and rubs it on his heel, where the chaffing is the worst. Jaskier tries to squirm away from his hand, but Geralt catches him by his ankle.

‘Don’t,’ he says.

‘Do I get to ride the horsie?’

‘Yes,’ Geralt huffs. His feet are too bad for him to walk. ‘You get to ride her.’

He navigates them out of the forest and back onto the main road with ease, following which he mounts Roach and hides the kid behind his back. He’s not interested in picking a fight with any political rivals who might recognise the Viscount’s missing son and ensure he _stays missing_.

They’re on the road for all but half of an hour or so – the sun is barely at midmorning – when he feels someone rifling through his pack. He smells Redanian vodka. _Good_ Redanian vodka. He isn’t quick enough to stop Jaskier from taking a sip.

‘Ugh,’ Jaskier splutters and drops the flask on the ground. Geralt makes Roach stop immediately and quickly scoops up the flask, now half-empty.

‘Don’t. Go. Through. My. Pack,’ he seethes.

‘I wanted a drink,’ Jaskier protests. He's defensive, hot-tempered, even when staring down a Witcher.

‘Then _ask,_ ’ Geralt punctuates and then hands Jaskier the waterskin. After he’s drunk his fill, Geralt pushes him forward and up the saddle and _away_ from his packs, where next time his sticky fingers will find more than a flask of expensive vodka, before settling behind him and urging Roach into a trot. Immediately, Jaskier’s hands are in her mane. He notices the mare’s ear twitch slightly, but Jaskier doesn’t pull or tug. Instead, his fingers nimbly weave the strands of hair between one another.

‘Who taught you to do that?’ Geralt asks.

‘My sisters,’ Jaskier replies simply as he finishes off a braid. ‘I could do your hair if you like! It’s almost as long as theirs is!’

He is reminded to get a haircut when in Lettenhove. ‘I will manage.’

‘Where will go you tomorrow?’

‘North,’ Geralt replies.

‘To Blavikan?’

‘No,’ Geralt grunts, perhaps too quickly. The boy continues braiding Roach’s main. Perhaps he does not know. How could he, Geralt considers. He is but a five-year-old child.

The sudden realisation that this child trusts him so implicitly is slightly flooring. A babe’s innocence indeed. To Jaskier, he is just a strange traveller with a horse he likes a little too much. He is not a monster. He is not a butcher.

‘To Tridam?’

Geralt realises Jaskier’s been listing towns.

‘Yes, to Tridam.’ He’s not really going to Tridam but that doesn’t matter. The boy certainly does know his geography.

‘When do you leave?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Will you come back to visit me?’ Jaskier says.

Geralt hesitates. While he’s almost certainly going to pass through Lettenhove again _at some point in time_ , it won’t be for Jaskier. And there’s a strange part of him that struggles to tell him that; to let him down so bluntly. So instead, Geralt side-steps the question entirely.

‘What will you say to your parents when they ask you where you’ve been?’

‘An adventure!’ Jaskier replies with a flourish and then immediately begins to sing.

 _That_ is certainly going to earn him a belting. Honestly, Geralt isn’t sure there’s anything Jaskier could say that _won’t_ earn him a belting. The thought unsettles him.

‘Stop singing.’

He pulls out his flute from Bramble– Geralt forgot he even had that thing – and blows into it without finesse. It makes a high pitch squeak that makes Roach startle.

‘Give me that thing.’ He snatches it none-too-gently from Jaskier’s hands. Jaskier cries out as Geralt hides it in his saddlebag. ‘You can have it when you’re home.’

Lettenhove appears just after lunchtime. Jaskier is sleeping against his arm, his hand fisted gently in Roach’s mane as they sway, though Geralt wouldn’t have let him fall off the horse had he slipped. He manages to ride to the castle with little fuss. Some residents see Jaskier and recognise him, mutter a small thanks to whatever deity they believe is looking over them.

Geralt wakes Jaskier as they come to the Viscount’s castle.

‘I’m home,’ he says blearily, sitting up.

‘You’re home,’ Geralt confirms.

He brings Roach to the castle gate. ‘I’ve bought the boy home,’ Geralt says.

One of the guards waves him on. ‘Good to see you Master Jaskier.’

‘Hi Llewellyn!’ Jaskier waves at the guard. ‘This is my friend, Geralt!’

‘Aye, I can see that,’ replies Llewellyn. The guard gives Geralt a heavy stare as Roach passes him.

He helps Jaskier off Roach, grabbing his wriggly little body as a stablehand comes out to greet them.

‘Glad to see no ill has befallen you, Master Jaskier,’ says the stablehand. He makes a move to take Roach, but Geralt waves him off.

‘I won’t be staying,’ Geralt says and instead, allows the horse to be tied to a post near a water trough.

‘My boy!’

Geralt turns to see a woman with braided brown hair and tanned skin run towards them, her skirts hitched up around her knees.

‘Mama!’ Jaskier cries and runs to hug the woman. Jaskier wraps his arms around her neck, clinging to her.

‘Oh look at you.’ Jaskier’s mother takes his cheeks in her hands, looking at his scratches, bruises, blisters. ‘Darling, what have you been through?’

‘I went on an adventure,’ he says. ‘I’m okay. Really. Geralt put this stinging stuff on all my cuts and now they don’t even hurt anymore.’

‘Healing salves,’ corrects Geralt. ‘Cleaned the wounds to avoid infection.’

Jaskier’s mother kisses the crown of his head. ‘Thank you, Witcher.’

The Viscount stands by the front door, taking in the scene before him with silence. Jaskier’s mother lets him go, urges him to step forward to greet his father, but Jaskier shies away. Carefully, he slinks up the staircase.

‘Hi,’ he says shyly.

‘Your mother and I were extremely concerned about you, Julian-,’

Julian. How has Geralt forgotten his name so quickly? He’d asked Geralt to call him _Jaskier_ because that was his _real_ name, and it’s stuck to him like mud. Even Jaskier seems to startle at his first name–

‘Do you have any idea the problems you’ve caused?’ the Viscount continues. ‘I had guards out looking for you through the night-,’

‘I’m sorry-,’

‘You will speak when I say you can speak, Julian!’

And at that, Geralt – who, thirty years ago, had agreed not to get involved in the squabbles of man – steps towards the Viscount and _gets involved._

‘He was enchanted by a group of faeries,’ Geralt tells the Viscount. ‘He got lost in the forest overnight. It wasn't his fault. He likely had no resistance to their magic.'

The Viscount looks at him sharply. ‘Where was he?’

‘The forests three hours west.’

The Viscount looks to one of his guards. ‘Get a brigade and sweep it.’

‘Their magic hides them from humans. You’d be wasting resources hunting for them.’

‘And what’s them to stop them _kidnapping_ my son again?’ the Viscount seethes.

‘They were remorseful,’ Geralt replies. ‘They never hurt him.’

‘I don’t need you making excuses for them, Witcher, or for him,’ the Viscount replies. ‘If Julian ran away from his Nanny, none of this wouldn’t have happened.’ He shakes his head. ‘Why bother conversing with you. You returned my son. My attending has your coin, so you may leave.’

A young man hands him a heavy bag of coins. The weight of it is enough for Geralt to know that his agreed fee is here. He takes it without another word.

‘Inside now, Julian, you reek of horse,’ the Viscount says sternly.

Jaskier hesitates and looks to Geralt. ‘You’ll come to visit me, right?’

The Viscount gives Geralt a hard look as he sinks down to Jaskier’s level. Gently, he places a hand on his shoulder. ‘Maybe one day I’ll see you on your travels.’

Jaskier beams and launches forward to hug him. Startled, he pats the child’s back awkwardly. He’s hyperaware that everyone is looking at him – the Viscount and his wife, Jaskier’s two older sisters who are hidden in the hallway of the house, the guards, the stable boy – but Jaskier’s hands are around his neck, clinging to him.

‘Bye Geralt,’ he whispers against his ear.

‘Goodbye Jaskier.’

Jaskier pulls back, his cheeks flushed.

‘Be good.’

Geralt rises to his feet as Jaskier’s mother corrals him into the house. He gives the Viscount one last glance before turning to grab at Roach’s reigns.

He leaves the castle grounds; stays in the Inn back in town.

‘Board and drink paid for,’ says the Innkeeper. ‘My girl will bring hot water for a bath in an hour.’

He nods his thanks and takes his tankard and hot meal up to his room. By the time he’s finished eating, they’re preparing his bath. It’s a luxury after more than two weeks on the road, the incident with Jaskier non-inclusive. His muscles are sore and tight and there’s a firm layer of grit packed underneath his cuticles. He shaves, too, because his beard is almost an inch long and it’s only going to get hotter.

He’d lied to the child; he is travelling west to Oxenfurt and decides he’ll get a haircut when he’s there. When he finally tires of the bath – which takes just over an hour – he dries off and collapses onto the bed. It’s clean, and he is tired, and he falls asleep before bothering to redress. In the morning, he plans on waking later than usual, on eating a hot breakfast, and continuing on for Oxenfurt.

There’s something in him that itches to leave this place, something he can’t quite explain – the town reminds him of Jaskier, reminds him of how troublesome the boy had been; how quickly he’d forced a friendship upon him; how he’d hugged him this afternoon and seen him as Geralt, when everyone else had seen him as a butcher; as nothing better than a beast with a good nose.

Lettenhove. Blaviken. He considers that, eventually, there will not be a town on the Continent he can go to without discomfort.

The knock on his door comes far too early.

‘Fuck off,’ he calls from his bed.

‘Master Witcher!’

Melitele’s tits, if this child has gone and got himself lost again, Geralt will demand double his fee and drag him back kicking and screaming. Geralt wrenches himself out of bed and before he realises what he’s doing, he is stalking towards the door. He gets four steps before he feels the cold air on his ass and realises he’s nude. Quickly, he pulls on a pair of trousers.

The guard named Llewlyn is standing on the other side of the door.

‘I’m here on a favour for Julian,’ the guard says. ‘He left… a flute?’

Geralt frowns, his head hazy with sleep. Then, he remembers the pixie’s parting gift that he'd played abysmally on his way back to Lettenhove. He finds the small flute wedged next to his waterskin in the front pocket of his saddlebag. He hands it to Llewlyn.

‘Ah, this must be it,’ says the guard. ‘He’ll be pleased to have it.’

‘The boy,’ Geralt starts and then stops, ‘was he… punished?’

‘No, I don’t believe so,’ he replies. ‘Thanks for this. Sorry for the early learning wake-up call and all.’

The guard leaves without another word and Geralt shuts the door. It’s still early. The sun is barely colouring the sky. Still, he won’t be able to go back to sleep. Instead, he eats breakfast early, tacks Roach, spends a little coin on essentials that he needs before he gets to Oxenfurt, and then, with one look back to the Viscount’s castle, Geralt leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has been slightly delayed - the author has been unwell.  
> Somehow most of my fics seem to have Jaskier hating Geralt's tea. Poor man just can't make a cuppa for the life of him. 
> 
> I'm finishing up the final chapter and expect to have it up by the weekend. Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Chapter five

Memories fade. He is over ninety years old and he has thousands of memories across tens of thousands of days. Some stick out; some that stay with him long after they should, but mostly his memories are of mundane days spent on the road, hunting the same beasts, eating the same food, walking the same Path. Eventually, those kinds of memories blend into one another and he begins to forget the non-essential details.

He doesn’t recognise Jaskier – or his name – when they meet in Posada. He is tired, hungry, poor, and yet he gives his last coin to a bard with bread in his pants;

And the man follows him;

Tries to touch the horse;

‘Don’t touch the horse.’

Forces his friendship;

‘We’re not friends.’

Plays his lute; sings;

‘Stop singing.’

The bard tells him he smells of adventure; of something he’s craved all his life. He’s not sure why that feels so familiar.

They’ve been travelling for two years when Jaskier plays a song Geralt’s never heard before. Truthfully, he doesn’t listen to most of the songs Jaskier sings. When they’re on the road and he’s composing, it’s mostly the mindless, repetitive twang of strings and lyrics as he slowly works through a song. At night, Geralt does his best to reduce the music to white noise, like the murmurings of a crowd, like the wind blowing through the trees or the sound of a deer grazing a few hundred feet away. This time thought the melody is so familiar, it pricks his ears. Across the fire, Jaskier looks lovingly at his instrument and begins to sing gently.

‘Where did you learn that song?’ he interrupts.

Startled, Jaskier looks up. ‘Ah, you know it?’

‘Yes, it’s Elven. How do you?’

Jaskier laughs, ‘This might sound a little silly, but I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know.’

Jaskier shifts uncomfortably. ‘You’re going to laugh, well,’ he glances across at Geralt’s neutral expression. ‘Perhaps find it mildly amusing but the song came to me… in a dream.’

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

‘I know, I know. It’s trite, even for me, but it’s the truth.’

‘Play it again.’

‘Well, well, well, look who’s asking-.’

Geralt purses his lips in annoyance. ‘Jaskier.’

‘Oh fine,’ Jaskier says. His foot kicks Geralt’s knee as he begins to play. The tune is simple, light-hearted and Jaskier sings gently. It’s definitely Elven.

‘And you say you heard it in a dream?’ Geralt says as Jaskier finishes the song. It’s not complete; merely bits and pieces of a longer song he’s heard somewhere before but can’t put his finger on.

At his silence, Jaskier elaborates. ‘The dream is a bit fuzzy now, I can’t remember all the details. But I remember the song, the melody of their voices. It makes me warm when I think about it like I don’t know, sitting around a campfire,’ he gestures to the one in front of him. ‘Cuddling in a warm bed on a cold night.’

Geralt rolls his eyes.

Something goes glassy in Jaskier’s gaze and he pulls at the lute strings thoughtfully. ‘Hmm, how would I know a song in Elven?’ He lute twinges again. ‘Perhaps I heard it once at Oxenfurt, you know we get all types through there.’

‘Perhaps,’ Geralt replies. It’s certainly a possibility.

Jaskier pushes his lute to the side and stretches out over his bedroll. With a sigh, he settles on his back. ‘Elven, huh?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘And here I thought it was an original composition.’

Geralt lies down next to him. Their bedrolls are side-by-side, but they don’t touch. The first night, Jaskier had set up his bedroll across the fire, but halfway through the night, he’d pulled it across the camp to settle next to Geralt.

‘I heard a noise,’ he’d whispered. ‘Geralt, I heard a _noise_.’

‘It’s a fox,’ Geralt had mumbled in reply. And it had been. The _terrifying_ beast had been scratching in the bushes a little while away.

‘Still, I’m just gonna sleep here,’ he’d mumbled. ‘Safer.’

Geralt had turned to him, watched as he’d settled back down onto the pillow with a smile. It’s a simple habit they’ve fallen into; sleeping side-by-side. It doesn’t mean _anything_.

Jaskier is silent for a while, but he’s not asleep. Geralt can hear the thump of his heart, slow and at rest but not sleeping. As if on cue, Jaskier hums a few bars, and a few bars turn into a melody and then he exclaims, ‘All right, this is annoying me now.’

Geralt glances at him to say _you’re not the only one_ but then Jaskier rolls to his side and says, ‘Why would I know _Elven_ without even knowing it?’

‘Jaskier,’ Geralt groans.

‘I’m trying to remember the dream,’ he hums. ‘I was a child and I heard this song… coming from the woods.’ He props himself up onto his elbow and looks over at Geralt. ‘It was nothing like I’d ever heard before and my father had refused to let me learn how to play the flute you know? Days and days, I spent studying history and geography and languages, and he wouldn’t even let me learn an instrument. And wasn’t it a beautiful flute. It had these engravings on the side of woodland flowers.’

Jaskier looks to him, laughs a little, and for the first time Geralt realises he doesn’t know the man who lies beside him most nights – he realises he knows only the essential things of Jaskier’s personality: that he’s a bard from Oxenfurt, that he’s a bad drunk and an even worse Gwent player, and that he carries around a dagger he doesn’t know how to use. Geralt reminds himself to offer to teach him how to protect himself, but the mental reminder is cut off by Jaskier falling on his bedroll.

‘You know we’re close to home,’ Jaskier says. ‘Imagine the look on my father’s face when I rock up, a bard of well-renowned and his witcher best friend!’

‘I’m not your friend.’

‘Hush, don’t ruin my fantasy.’

It’s only when Jaskier settles down in his bedroll, when his breathing evens out, that Geralt bolts out of bed, a cold sweat on his brow. He looks down at Jaskier, the skin of his cheek warmed by the breaking light of dawn. It’s _dawn_ already?

‘You okay?’ Jaskier blinks and it’s only then that Geralt realises he’s sucking down the morning air like he’s thirsty for it. ‘Geralt?’

His mind is running wild and suddenly he remembers. He looks to Jaskier and wonders how he’d never noticed before – the curve of his nose, the brightness of his eyes, and in every _fucking_ annoying thing he’s ever done. That Jaskier is _Jaskier_.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Jaskier says then. ‘You’ve realised too, huh?’

‘Fuck.’

Jaskier laughs and falls back on his bedroll. ‘As eloquent as ever.’

‘As soon as you said something, I just started thinking and then I remembered the flute and how father was so _angry_ when he saw I had it. And then I remember you and your white hair and the _horse_ ,’ he laughs and looks over at Roach. ‘Was that you, Roachie girl?’

‘That Roach was Chesnut. This Roach is bay,’ Geralt replies.

‘Ah, I suppose it was almost twenty years ago. Still,’ he reaches across the bedroll and gently places his hand over Geralt’s. Geralt focuses on it. Despite travelling for just over two years, they rarely touch. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your father-,’ and then strangely, Geralt’s mouth goes dry.

‘Was – _is_ – a monumental bastard but I had a good childhood, Geralt,’ he says. ‘Though I now recall that you never visited.’

He takes his hand from Geralt’s, and something strange passes through him. A sense of longing; a sense of regret, but just as soon as he feels it, it’s swept away.

‘Jaskier-,’

‘Come on,’ he says, getting up out of his bedroll. ‘This pack of drowners aren’t gonna kill themselves, are they?’

Perhaps they should talk about this. But then Geralt’s never really been one for talking, and Jaskier is already telling Roach that he loves her _more_ than the other Roach. So, Geralt doesn’t bring it up again and they go to kill drowners; and occasionally Jaskier sings the Elven song – the one they both know he learnt from the pixies when he was five-years-old – and both of them try their best to ignore that something has changed between them. Because it hasn't, Geralt tells himself one afternoon as Jaskier strums idly on his lute. Nothing's changed at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed the conclusion and a million apologies it took me so long. I was halfway through and unsure how to wrangle the ending to something I was satisfied with. While not officially a part of the forty seasons series, in my mind it's all a part of the same timeline, as forty season starts when they officially get together.
> 
> [I lurk on twitter. ](https://twitter.com/abra_pressler)
> 
> Thanks for always being cool on this site. You can check out my other Witcher fics in my description.


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